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Class^S li6 4- 

Book , Ky 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE DANCE AT 
JOE CHEVALIER 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



WILMOT A. KETCHAM 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
THE TOLEDO TILE CLUB 



TOLEDO, OHIO 

THE FRANKLIN PRINTING AND ENGRAVING CO 

PUBLISHERS 



LIBRARY cf CONGRESS 
Two Copies Heceived 

NOV 16 1904 

Gopyngrii tntry 
'/lev. /JL, tqc*£ 
CLASS a. XXC No: 

COPY B, 






Copyright, 1904 

The Franklin Printing and Engraving Co 

October 



Vi 



•■'■ 



CONTENTS 

4* 



PAGE 



By Way of Prelude 7 

The Dance at Joe Chevalier 11 

De Spring Call of de Loon 19 

Since Marie Die 26 

Dat Pokaire Game 29 

A Muskrat Hunter's Lament 35 

Canadian Sketches 37 

A Christmas Story 43 

De Ol Time Christmas 50 

Undine 56 

The Blessing of Civilization 58 

Ole Mr. Tu'key Buzza'd 61 

Antoine and Hes " Pon Boat" 66 

Dat Blizzard 71 

Wen de Ole Houn Bays 73 

Society Sketch, Presque Isle, .1830 78 

At La Plaisance 84 

Not on the Bills 94 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



* 



De fur is sol, de jug is fill Frontispiece 

by Ludwig Bang 

PAGE 

Hark to dat fiddle what she say 13 

by Ludwig Bang 

We danced at Joe Chevalier 17 

by Ludwig Bang 

De Spring Call of de Loon 19 

by Marie Osthaus Griffith 

Since Marie Die 26 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Vignette 29 

by Marie Osthaus Griffith 

Vignette „ 35 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Vignette 42 

BY Edmund II . Osthaus 

Vignette 50 

uv Marie Osthaus Griffith 

Vignette 55 

hy Marie Osthaus Griffith 



PAGE 

Vignette 56 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Vignette 58 

by Marie Osthaus Griffith 

Vignette 61 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Ole Mr. Tu'key Buzza'd 63 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Vignette 65 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Vignette 66 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Antoine an Hes " Pon Boat" 67 

by Thomas S. Parkhurst 

Dat Blizzard 71 

by Thomas S. Parkhurst 

Wen de Ole Houn Bays 73-75 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Vignette 77 

by Edmund H. Osthaus 

Vignette 78 

by Marie Osthaus Griffith 

At La Plaisance 84 

by Marie Osthaus Griffith 

I get a purl dat take dat foremas 89 

by David L. Stine 



By Way of Prelude 

YOU will remember how Millett, in his great 
painting, u The Angelus", took two dull, 
insensate clods of the field and furrow, 
and made them infinitely pathetic. A man and 
a woman with bowed heads — that was all. And 
yet — do you recall the hush of reverence that 
fell upon you, and the sudden dryness that 
gripped your throat when you looked at those 
two unlovely figures? 

It is God's own gift, this genius for uncov- 
ering beautiful truths in soil that seems hope- 
lessly barren; and the poet possesses it in the 
superlative degree. To the true poet it matters 
little what language is spoken by his subject. 
You and I see merely the husk of a man — the 
poet shows us the heart inside the husk. He is 
the great interpreter who makes intelligible 
things which are uttered in strange tongues — 
as much a prophet as Jeremiah of old. He is 
voice for the dumb; he speaks the universal 
language of the soul. 

Perhaps we who know him, are over-fond 
of the quaint, ingenuous habitant with whom 
Mr. Ketcham has fraternized so delightfully 
and profitably in the marsh-lands of Ohio and 
Michigan, but we cannot help believing that 
even if he comes to you as a stranger, you must 
learn to love this wayward son of France. 

For French he is — indubitably French, in 
spite of many nitrations of the old hot blood, in 
spite of Indian strain, corrupting environment, 
and a lacerated language which is neither flesh. 
fish, nor good red herring. 



Yes, he is French; but, first and foremost, 
an elemental child of Old Mother Earth — with 
passions fresh poured from her crucible, arid, 
under his stolid exterior, emotions as naive and 
untutored as though the sweep and flow of civil- 
ization had never touched even the outskirts of 
his cabin home. 

You'll hear the soft, unctuous plash of 
paddles in this book, and the whizz and whirr 
of winged things; the ooze of swamp-land under 
crunching boots, the crack of the rifle, and the 
thrilling cry of dogs in hot pursuit. But better 
still, you'll feel the impact of life as it is lived 
in the marsh-lands — a crude, bizarre, and some- 
times ugly sort of life; but, when you break 
through the crust, very closely akin in its 
tragedies and comedies to existence as we know 
it in the city. 

""The Colonel's lady and Judy 0' Grady 
Are sisters under their skins" 

So sings Kipling, and true it is, too, of 
these quaint cousins of ours whose lives Mr. 
Ketcham has illuminated so vividly. They 
constitute a steadily narrowing little corner of 
Creation, aiid the day of disappearance is not, 
perhaps, far distant. So it is well that Mr. 
Ketcham, with his quick comprehension, has 
found time to break bread with them — and time 
to gather us all about the fireside while the 
story is being told. It is a story that brooks no 
delay in the hearing, if you love life for life's 
sake, so — pull up your chair a little closer to 
the blaze, and listen: 

Theodore F. Mac M anus. 



The Dance at Joe Chevalier. 






- - 







f ?. 1 ■' | 



The Dance at Joe Chevalier. 

PvAT ol pirogue, she's loaded strong, 
^^ Petit Pierre he start de song 
He lern on de big river. 
Tout ensemble — dip, dip — 
Dose paddle dip lak swallow's wing. 
De moon is up to hear us sing, 
Geese is callin, night is fallin; 
Hear dose paddle dip, dip — 
We'll dance at Joe Chevalier. 
11 



J 



The Dance at Joe Chevalier. 

De fur is sol, de jug is fill, 

A Frenchman can drink whiskee till 

De jug she's noding in it. 

Eau de vie — drink! drink! — 

She's warm de heart an swell de head, 

She's fedders now, to-morrow lead. 

Dat's cold wedder, try some fedder; 

Kiss de hoi jug — drink! drink! — 

We'll dance at Joe Chevalier. 



Hoi Pete, she's steerin by a star, 
We'll see Joe's light out on de bar 
If she ain't steer by fire-fly. 
Nom de Dieu — sure, sure! — 
De light is shinin bright an clear, 
Hoi Joe he know dat we be here; 
Don stop to res, paddle you bes. 
Nom de Dieu — sure, sure! — 
We'll dance at Joe Chevalier. 



Voila! look, dose girl is here, 
Pete's squaw, she's jumpin lak a deer; 
12 



The Dance at Joe Chevalier, 

Deres Victorine an Julie. 
Strike me dead — hi! hi! — 
"La femme," dat fill de trinitee, 
La chanson an dat good whiskee, 
Big Honorine, tit Sidonie. 
Strike me dead — hi! hi! — 
We'll dance at Joe Chevalier. 



Hark to dat fiddle what she say: 
"Dance, you goin die some day," 
Now is de time for livin. 
Mark de time — dance, dance! — 
Jaques Noir an ma belle Sidonie, 
Dey dance lak "La chasse galerie;" 
Nex time you see, she dance wid me. 
Mark de time — dance, dance! — 
We'll dance at Joe Chevalier. 



Dat rain she's drip, an den she's dash, 
De win is moanin on de mash, 
Ma po'vr petite Sidonie. 
Misererre — ai, ai — 

15 



The Dance at Joe Chevalier. 

Wid de blue mark on hes back, 
In hes dug-out, poor hoi Jaques. 
Misererre — ai, ai — 
We danced at Joe Chevalier. 




De Spring Call of de Loon 

I AS spring, I am down on de mash, 

An de souwes win was blow, 
An de voices out in de moonlight 
Was singin sof an low. 



De raindrops patter gently, 
An I tink I am gettin hoi, 
An I go to de door an lissen, 
An de win blow warm, den cold, 

1!) 



De Spring Call of de Loon. 

An de mallards, dey was callin, 
An de widgeon whistle, too, 
Do de soun is hoi lak de mash, 
In de Spring- dey is always new. 

An den I go back to de fire, 
An am halmos go to sleep, 
When a soun come over de mash 
Dat mek my pulses leap. 

I jomp to my feet an lissen, 
Wid de echo in my ear, 
For dat was a soun I did'n hear 
For more dan forty year. 

An den I hear dat call again, 

Out under de quiet moon, 

An it ring true as my mudder's voice; 

De Spring call of de loon. 

Dat's why I know dat call's for me, 
An I ans'er, loud an clear: 
20 



\ 



De Spring Call 'of de Loon. 

'*!'m comin, my God, I'm comin!" 
Lak I honly had twenty year. 

An quick as de dive of de mushrat, 
I'm on de ol trail once more, 
Jes out of our camp on Cedar Lac, 
In de Spring time of forty-four. 

Dey was me an Gabrielle Bonvouloir, 
We are loaded down wid fur, 
He is mon bon camerade 
An a firs-rate voyageur. 

An de pines dey was singing dere chanson, 

An dat seem good to me; 

An de lacs is strung on de river 

Lak de beads on my rosarie. 

Deres de Lac of Pine, an Burnt Lac, 
White Trout, an de Otter Slide, 
Jeff's Lac, an de two Joe Lac, 
Jes layin side by side. 
23 



De Spring Call of de Loon. 

But de bes of all is Canoe Lac, 
Asleep in her robe of mis, 
An over de dark of de pines 
By de Nordern Light is kiss. 

But we did'n stop at Canoe Lac, 
We was fill wid de Spring an de night; 
An soon we're on de river, 
In an out of de sof moonlight. 

An we was singin "La Jeune Sophie," 
Jes loud lak we could crack, 
An de pines on each side de river, 
Dey was doubly pay us back. 

But above de soun of de singin, 
Is de roar of "Whiskee Fall," 
An jes when I firs hear it, 
I hear, too, de loon's Spring call. 

An when Gabe say, u Les run her," 
My heart was almos stop; 
24 






De Spring Call of de Loon. 

De wors fall on de river, 
Long rapide, an six feet drop! 

But we don swing in to de portage, 

An we go right straight ahead 

Where de white devil dance in de moonlight, 

Over de rocky bed. 

Den de hiss an boil of de water — 
A crash — a white face — a moan; 
An down at de foot of de rapide 
I'm dazed, an safe, but alone. 

Alone at de fpot of de rapide — 
My God — alone wid de moon; 
An mournful, from out of de shadow, 
Comes de Spring call of de loon. 



25 




ince 



Marie D 



T^V AT win, she's blowin up a rain, 
^^^ De drops come on my window-pane. 
Dat win, she's got a lonely sigh; 
Dat's jes one year since Marie die. 



My fire she's burnin way clown low, 
De flame she come, an den she go. 
26 



j Since Marie Die . 



Dem twilight shadows comin by; 
Dat's jes one year since Marie die. 

De hice she crack up on de creek; 
Was early March wen she get sick. 
De sea-gull jes beggin to fly; 
Dat's jes one year since Marie die. 

I bring her here five year last May, 
We sail across La Plaisance Bay, 
An for ol Julie's milk she cry; 
Dat's jes one year since Marie die. 

Where Pelau Creek she meet de lac, 
We watch dat silver pickrel wak, 
She look at me, her dark brown eye; 
Dat's jes one year since Marie die. 

I lay las night an tink some more, 
I hear dem surf beat on dat shore, 
I feel dat tear come in my eye; 
Dat's jes one year since Marie die. 
27 



Since Marie D 1 f 



I get me noder pup next Spring, 
I train her hunt lak anyting. 
I no can match her if I try; 
Dat's jes one year since Marie die. 



28 




:-'-„■ 



fr 



Dat Pokaire Game 



T HAD some pretty dandee time 

In de Spring- time an de Fall, 
But de time we lern dat pokaire game 
Was de dandee time of all. 



Dey was me, an dat ol Pete La Pere, 

Was cumin from Monroe; 

29 



Dat Pokaire Gc- 

(01 Pete he only got one ear, 
Count of dat fight wid Joe). 

Dat ol pon boat was sailin free, 
An I was hoi de stick, 
Wen dat ol Pete he seen a light 
On dat island call Wood Tick. 

Ol Pete he say, "Some hunter dere," 
An he wink a gret big wink; 
He say, "Jim, go up troo Deep Cut, 
Mebbe we get a drink." 

I run dat pon boat troo dat Cut, 
Pete trow de hank, an shout: 
"Youse feller, dere, were tirsty here, 
So our tong is hangin out." 



Bime-by dose feller dey come out; 
Dey come out awful slow. 
Said dat dey came to shoot dose duck; 
Dey come from Toledo. 
30 



Dat Pokaire Game. 

Den one dose dude, he say to us: 
"Boys, you had good long sail," 
An, "Jack, you better mix em up 
A good, strong cock-a-tail." 

Now, me an Pete, like good Frenchman, 
We drink our whiskee clear; 
We didn't lak dat name cock-a-tail, 
Tought mebbe it was beer. 

Dat feller, Jack, he bring us both 
A tumbler full up clear; 
Dat low-lived Pete, he drink his down 
An never shed a tear. 

Bime-by me an one-ear Pete, 
We feel lak two brass ban. 
"We play pokaire," one feller say, 
"Boys, come and tek a han." 

Now, me an Pete, we play pedro, 
An High, Jack, Low, de Game, 
3] 



Dat Pokaire Game. 

We never play dat game, pokaire, 
But we try her, jes de same. 

Dey show us den dat "flush-tail-bob," 
Dat "triple" an dat "fill." 
"De fill is bes," says one-ear Pete, 
I couldn't keep him still. 

Den me an Pete, we tink we see 
Jes how dat game she run, 
We win two dollar sixty-five 
An tought dat game was fun. 

But pretty soon, bime-by, somehow 
Dat luck begin to turn, 
We see dere was things bout dat game 
Dat we forgot to lern. 

Pete, he lose haf dat load of feesh, 
An me — I lose haf, too — 
We lose dat boat-hook, an dat hank — 
Dat hank, she was bran new. 
32 



Dat Pokaire Game. 

But jes bout dat time, dat Pete 
He say, "Give me two card." 
I see tree aces in his hand — 
My bret was comin hard. 

I draw four card widout a smile, 
An get dat oder ace. 
I put dat ace on Pete's knee — 
He never change hes face. 

I say I tought I wouldn't bet, 
An trow my han away; 
An Pete, he say, "Jes wait a bit, 
I tink I got a say." 

He say, "I bet dat ol pon boat 
Wid dat dere feller Jack, 
Agin dose gun." "A go," Jack say, 
"Dat boat will tek us back." 

Jack had four king, but Pete four ace. 
Pete Jump to dat gun-rack — 

33 



Dat Pokaire Game. 

He grab a gun an say, "Look here, 
You feller jes stan back." 

An den I grab dat oder gun, 
An me an Pete sail off. 
Dose feller laf jes lil laf — lak 
Dey had a good bad cough. 

I had some pretty dandee time 

In de Spring time an de Fall, 

But de time we lern dat pokaire game, 

She was de bes of all. 



34 



s^y s&ly J?<^y £^j£ £^J£ l<lx. J^j£. J^j 



A Muskrat Hunter s Lament 



r^vE mash she's cover up wid hice, 
^^^ Dat mushrat house she's high four feet, 
He mek dat high, an warm, an nice, 
To keep hes bed an wat he heat. 



De norwes win fill up wid snow, 

She blow, blow, blow, an don feel good; 

An my steel trap freeze two feet low, 
I lak to get dem if I could. 



I got bad luck since las July, 
I los feesh-net, bout ninety yard; 

My hoats was hall heat up by fly, 
An ev'ry time she come dam hard, 




35 



A Muskrat Hunter's Lament, 

De rock, she stove my feesh-boat in, 
My chicks hall die wid lice; 

An for two week my rat-trap bin 
Freeze two feet deep in hice. 

I spen six dollar for new clothes, 

An den I go get drunk. 
In Dominic's barn I freeze my nose — 

My suit get spoil by skunk. 

My wife, he lose two HI chaps, 

Course dat ain't ver nice; 
But more dan dat, my new steel trap 

Freeze two feet deep in hice. 



36 



^immmMMMM 



Canadian Sketches 



r I ^HE fire had burned rather low and the 
talk had sunk with it. 

The glow of the embers showed the 
various figures around the fire, and among 
them, stretched at full length, puffing lazily 
at his short pipe and gazing thoughtfully 
in the fire, that of Placide Carabou, the 
half-breed guide. 

His position showed his wiry form to 
good advantage and made a very pictur- 
esque figure in the half light. Black hair, 
stubby black beard, dark eyes and swarthy 
face, loose woolen shirt open at the neck, 
showing the brawny, hairy chest. The re- 
mainder of his dress, overalls and buckskin 
moccasins. His heavy brown eyes gave 



Canadian Sketches. 

him a half-scowling - , half-fierce look, as he 
gazed in the fire, but there was a kindly 
twinkle in his dark eyes which indicated 
that his first name was not such a misnomer 
after all. 

The group around the fire was silent and 
thoughtful in that vast cathedral of which 
the giant pines were the columns, and the 
wind in the tree tops the organ which played 
as grand and as lofty strains as ever swept 
down the aisles of a cathedral built by hands. 

The silence was unbroken except the 
ever-present forest lullaby in the tree tops, 
until a loon screamed in some far-off lake, 
and following it came the long-drawn howl 
of a wolf. The spell was broken. Some 
one tossed an armful of cedar on the fire and 
the flame shot up, lighting the somber 
pines and making the boughs of a balsm 
crackle over head. Placide slowly took his 
pipe from his mouth and said: "Dat wolf fin 
where we kill doe — dey have lil picnic to- 
night." 

38 



Canadian Sketches. 

Then the talk turned on the doe, and 
the slayer, a quiet fellow enough, not given 
to sentiment, said: "I never felt so much 
like a murderer as when I plunged that 
knife in the doe's throat; such an appealing 
look out of her great, soft eyes. I couldn't 
do it again." 

The "Old Hunter" broke in: "Yes, she 
looked at you like Laurence Sternes' 
donkey, 'Do not slay me; but if you will you 
may.' I notice, though, that your appetite 
didn't hang fire when it came to ribs of 
venison. It's all weak sentimentality; your 
next will be easier." 

The first speaker said: "I am thankful 
I am not as much of a barbarian as you 
are — the feeling is a natural one and I'll 
warrant even Placide has felt it sometimes, 
haven't you? you old wolf." 

The half-breed looked up with a quiet 

smile and said: "Yes, I feel lak dat once; 

I tell you bout it. I was camp den on de 

'Mab dc Feau' (brief for Amable de Feau), 

39 



Canadian Sketches. 

an it was long- in de Spring-, but de snow 
was deep lak four feet an de crus on. 
Dat's hard on deer, dat crus; dey brek 
troo, an de wolf kill dem lak a dog kill 
sheep. I was comin to camp, after de 
moon come up, over de crus. I didn't feel 
pretty good; a lynx got a big beaver from 
my trap, an I ketch four jay-bird in my 
mink trap. Wen I was comin troo lil 
hard-wood bush, I start a doe. She went 
two jump, den she is ketch in de crus. I 
got up wid my knife to cut her troat, an 
den wen I am goin raise her to cut, she 
look at me lak dat what you say. Me — I 
drop my knife an den I pick her up an say: 
'Placide, you are a fool — fool — dat's good 
hide on dat doe.' Den I tek my knife 
again, but she look again an den I see she is 
near to have some fawn, an den I know 
what dat look from her eye is lak, mais — 
lak my wife wen our firs baby is born. 
De good God sent dat look so I can remem- 
ber (softly and crossing himself) my wife; 

40 



Canadian Sketches. 

she die. I help dat doe to dat runway, an 
lead her lak a sheep. I tek her to my 
camp an nex mornin she ' have two pretty 
fawn. My dogs get used to her an dey 
won touch her or dose fawn, and dey won 
tek her track. No. 

"One day, I hear some strange dog, long 
way off, comin to my camp. I go to camp; 
I tink mebbe dat's my doe, an bime-by I 
see her comin right for me. She come in 
de house an jomp on my bunk an lay 
down an pant, pant. She have long run 
an she look at me again lak wen I firs 
saw her. I trow my blanket over her an den 
shut de door an watch for dem dog. In 
bout five minute dey come up, an hoi dat 
trail up to my door, an den dey look 
fooliwSh — dey try to fin dat trail again, but 
dey soon fin she is inside, and den I let dem 
dog fin out dey run de wrong deer. Dat 
winter bot dose fawn get kill by wolf, but 
dat ol doe she always come to my camp, 
an she never mek mistek to trus me. But 

41 



Canadian Sketches. 



she get kill dat Summer— funny, dat was 
(with a sly glance at the Old Hunter). 
One dem ol hunter from de State tink she 
is wil an shoot her in my potato-patch wid 
forty-eight buck-shot. He was foolish; he 
could kill her wid one." 




42 



^I^l^l^l^l^l^i^l 



A Christmas Story. 

TT was a genial, typical Christmas day, 
that of 1801; the sun shone benignantly 
and a curious group looked out across the 
Maurnee Bay from the shore at Presque 
Isle. 

Several French voyageurs, careless, 
happy and voluble. A group of Indians, 
silent and watchful. Two American hunt- 
ers, alert, rifle on arm and with an occa- 
sional glance at the priming. A couple of 
English traders, reckless dare-devils, but 
resourceful. 

They had stood thus for an hour, watch- 
ing across the snow for Father Placide, 
from Frenchtown (Monroe). 

At last, from one of the Frenchmen: 

43 



A Christmas Story. 

"Voila! de good Fader." A contemptuous 
grunt from one of the Indians: "See him 
long time." 

A little speck, far across the Bay at 
first, but soon the sturdy little Canadian 
pony, bursting breast high through the 
drifts — and Father Placide has arrived. 
Patting the pony and calling him "Mon 
Brave," while willing hands unhitched him, 
he greets each one. "Ah, Francois, thy 
wife needs thee at Detroit; to-morrow thou 
shalt go." To another, shaking a warning 
finger, "And thou, Antoine, I have not seen 
thee since thy babies' christening; then thou 
wert drunk. Thou hast much for which to 
be forgiven." Both looked sheepish. 

"A happy Noel to you all, my children," 
but as he saw the slinking figure of a half- 
breed in the back ground — "Nay, not to 
thee. Go to thy cabin, thou shalt go back 
with me and see the widow and fatherless 
little ones thy murderous knife hath made." 
To the Indians: "If he steps outside his 
44 



A Christmas Story. 

door, shoot him." To the English-speaking- 
portion of his audience, in a sweet French 
accent: "Gentlemen, will you have the po- 
liteness to join our worship; Christmas 
Day belongs to all of us." He led the way 
to the largest cabin, soon set up his little 
altar, with its beautiful silver crucifix, and 
began the celebration of mass. 

The solemn, beautiful service needed 
no deep-toned organ; the sturdy winter 
wind took up the theme, and the responses 
came from the stately elms. As he raised 
the host and looked up to the smoky raft- 
ers with a rapt look, one could see that 
one eye was sightless (a blazing splinter 
from an Iroquois fire), that three of his 
fingers were missing, lost years before at 
the torture — but there was undaunted 
strength in the thin old face and resolu- 
tion in the grasp of the remaining fingers. 

The solemn hush that fell on the com- 
pany (except for a sob or two) after the 
mass, was broken by the Father: u My 
45 



A Christmas Story. 

children, Christmas is a day of gladness, 
let us be merry and wise. Antoine, thy 
bouillon has a marvelous good smell. Let 
us eat." 

The great kettle was set on the table 
and the company gathered round, each one 
rilled his gourd with the steaming, savory 
mixture; vension, wild turkey, dried green 
corn and lima beans — all cooked together — 
good Christmas cheer. 

When the meal was finished, the fire 
heaped with logs and pipes were lit, the 
good Father was the soul of merriment. 
He sang the old Breton chansons in a clear, 
sweet tenor, that brought the vineyards 
and the sunshine to some of them, and, 
somehow, told of home to them all. 

He held the company spellbound, sav- 
ages and all, as he might have held a much 
grander company in his own, far away, 
sunny France, over snowy damask with 
the best blood of the vineyards at his 
elbow — but his life-work was here. 
46 



A Christmas Story. 

When it came time for him to go, he 
sang for them a last song, the strong, old 
voice rising with the theme, until it closed 
grandly: 

"Noel, Noel, voici le Redempteur." 

Each heart was softened, each one felt 
some of the thrill of the Christmas mes- 
sage. 

The pony was hitched, the Father 
tucked in his furs, when an Indian sol- 
emnly brought the half-breed, preparing to 
bind him, when the Father turned and said: 
"No, no, John, take his knife lest he be 
tempted; it is too cold to bind him." The 
Indian took the knife with a wondering 
glance at the priest and a scowl at the 
half-breed, let him step in the sleigh, 
wrap himself in a deer skin, and with an 
"Au revoir, my children," the impatient 
little pony was off and away. 

The company were quite subdued for 
47 



A Christmas Story. 



some time after the good Father was gone, 
until Antoine started a French drinking 
song, and "den de fire was in de mash," as 
one of the Frenchmen said. 

By common consent every weapon was 
left in the half-breed's cabin and an Indian 
left to guard it — a volunteer, the same one 
who had guarded the half-breed, then the 
brandy-keg was broached in the large cabin. 

The sentinel brooded over the fire for 
some time; at last he rose, barricaded the 
door and went out through the smoke-hole 
in the roof. He listened for a few mo- 
ments at the door of the large cabin to a 
sound of furious revelry, nodded his head 
and then took the trail of the Father's 
sleigh. His sturdy trot ate up the miles 
and he was soon beyond Turtle Island, 
when the moon rose. Scanning the snow 
ahead of him, he muttered to himself as he 
saw a dark object on the snow: u He had 
noder knife." Going cautiously up to it, 
he stopped a moment, felt the icy brow, 

48 



A Christmas Story. 

tightened his belt, and with a set face 
started on the trail of the half-breed. 

He horrified the good Fathers at the 
Mission with his story and the reeking 
scalp of the murderer. 

The good Father Placide lay on the 
snow with a dull, red stain beside him. 
The poor mutilated hand clasping the 
crucifix; his face, serene and placid, turned 
toward the star that shone on the morning 
of the nativity of the Master he had served 
so well. On his face, written so plainly 
that the savage had seen it there and mar- 
veled: "Peace On Earth, to Men Good 
Will." 



4!) 




De 01 Time Christmas 



T^\E ol time Christmas is gone, an she 
^^^ ain't comin some more for de French- 
man. In de firs place, mushrat skin is cheap 
an whiskee is high, an dat is bad; but dat 
ain't all of it. De tree is gone, an de deer, 
an de coon, an de wil turkey, an de possom 
gone wid em — -an livin is hard; an if it ain't 
dat we have wat you call de "light heart," 
we tink, sometime, de good God forget us. 

Whiskee is good for a Frenchman, cos 
if she don bring back dose ting, she bring de 
good half-hour, wen a man don care a dam. 

I kin riccolay wen dey was a little kag 
50 






De Ol Time Christmas. 

in ev'ry shanty on de Pointe, an it come 
from Canada, cross de water in a feesh-boat 
an did'n pay no duty. 

In de ol time, wen it come along- to 
Christmas, you kin jes tek down de ol 
rifle from de peg an mek a hunt, an you 
kin bring in a pig — dey was runnin wil in 
de wood — or a fat buck or a turkey, to 
mek Christmas wid, an was all "bon 
camerade" den; me an ol Joe Chevalier 
an Antoine La Course an de Navarre 
boys an more — more — mos all under 
de leaves, long ago. Tit verre? Yes, 
merci. 

De mos big Christmas I kin riccolay 
was in forty-one. Dat year, ol man Bon- 
vouloir's birse-day an Christmas was all 
on de same day, an so we have a u fete de 
granpere" an Christmas togedder. 

De ol man say to me: "You come early 

an bring you fiddle an dat lil Sidonie 

Peltier, cos we goin hav hell of a time." 

He has got ninety-four year, den, de ol 

5] 



De Ol Time Christmas. 

man, an jes big-gin to lern good English, 
but he show his year some. 

Say, dat was de time — ev'rybody come 
— an we had venison — honly de saddle, too 
— an wil turkey, an roas wil duck, an 
coon, an some rat. Say, if you buy dat 
dinner, now, in town, you have to mortgage 
ev'ry house on de Pointe. An den ol 
man Bonvouloir he mek some ponch, dat 
he lern how at Detroit, from de English 
officer dere, before de Injun war. An I 
take a few tit verre, an I know den why 
dey call it dat, cos I ponch de head ofFn 
Gabe Reno, wen he mek himself fresh 
wid Sidonie. Ol Dan Navarre was dere — 
you know him? Yes — he is fine ol man an 
he is welcome at any shanty on de Pointe 
any time. De children love him, an dat 
not bad sign. He can bring de ol time 
back wid his chanson. He was young Dan, 
den, an he can sing lak a robin. I remem- 
ber he sing u Frite a l'huile," she go lak 
dis: 

52 



De Ol Time Christmas. 

u Mon pere a fait batir maison 

Ha, ha, ha, frite a l'huile. 
Sont trois charpentiers qui la font, 

Fritaine, friton, fritou, poilon, 

Ha, ha, ha, frite a l'huile, 
Frite au beurre a' V ognon." 

Eh, Sidonie, de ol man can sing yet. 
An he sing, too: 



'La Jeune Sophie, 
Chantait l'autre jour, 

Son echo lui repete. 
Que non pas d'amour, 
N'est pas de bon jour. 



Ah, dat was de bes time; de ol time, 
an noding bring it back lak de ol chan- 
son. Eh — you kin strike me dead if de ol 
woman ain't cryin — dat's cos she riccolay, 
an dose ting she forget jomp back quick. 

Dat night, goin home over de cms, I 

53 



De Ol Time Christmas. 

hask Sidonie to get marry wid me, an she 
tell me my head is full of ponch, lak Gabe, 
but de kind I had was de mos pleasant. 
Yes, dat ol woman Sidonie, an I nevaire 
mek no mistek — she is gettin long in year, 
now, but she kin brek up some wood yet. 

Yes — seven boy an two girl; two of 
dose boy is layin where dey fell in de big 
Wilderness fight — some here, some dere — 
some marry, some dead — I lose track of 
dem, but Sidonie know. 

I kin riccolay dem bes in de ol Christ- 
mas time, wen Sidonie use mek dem lil 
doll babie from mushrat fur an twine; an 
me, I use mek dem bow an arrow an 
tommie-hawk. Yes, de ol time, she gone 
— she is gone out like a pipe. You see dat 
big light in de sky in de souwes? — dat de 
city. I bin watch dat light grow for fifty 
year — did'n bodder me at firs, but now it 
hurt my eye. I got to look nord over de 
lac an see de star to res me. Dat look 
jes de same out dere it did fifty year go — 
54 



De 01 Time Christmas. 



but I can't see de ol time Christmas comin 
back — no. 



in: - 









t 



55 







Und 



me, 



HPHE laugh that comes from brooklets 
in their race, 
Where daisies sweet are mirrored in the 
stream, 
The smile that dimples on the brooklets 
face 

56 



Undine. 

Are but the laugh and smile of sweet 
Undine. 

And then the pretty brooklet opens its 
arms 
To clasp its meadows, royal with their 
clover, 
As Undine, radiant with her dainty charms, 
Entwined her dimpled arms about her 
lover. 

And then, it gently steals 'neath alder's 

shade, 

With water lilies on its bosom sleeping, 

Then, with soft cheek upon its pebbles laid, 

It murmurs soft and low — 'tis Undine 

weeping. 




■■' .'■ . 



The Blessing of Civilization. 

T WAN to tank God for someting 

Dat de town can't tek away, 
De Spring an de Fall, 
An de plovers' call, 
An de sunrise over de bay. 



If dey could tie up de sunrise, 
An show her wen dey please, 

58 



The Blessing of Civilization. 

A man wid fur collar 
Would charge you a dollar, 
An a quarter more for de trees. 



My fader had dam good title 

To de farm what he tought he hown, 

But dey called him a squatter, 

An lef him de water — 

Took de meat, an we got de bone. 



We got some mighty good water, 

An dey couldn't steal de sun, 

An so, now, to-day 

We can raise mash hay, 

An she sell for dollar a ton. 



But dey can't buy de twilight, 
Nor de green on de mash in de Sprini 
Nor de kiss of de bee 
To de fleur-de-lis, 
An so dey have left someting. 
59 



The Blessing of Civilization. 

De town owes more to de Frenchman 

Dan de Frenchman owes to de town. 

If I could tell, 

What I know so well, 

I would call some people down. 



Dey got deir pretty houses 
An deir dam electricy cars, 
If dey tink a minute 
Dey wouldn't be in it, 
Except for ol Pete Navarre. 



Ol Pete was here wen dose Injun 

Was tick as de hair on de cow, 

An he an his gun 

An Harrison, 

Mek de smoke in de chimney now. 



60 











Ole Mr. Tu'key Buzza d. 

^"^VLE Mr. Tu'key Buzza'd was done 
^^ settin on a rail fence one day, jes a 
kinder lookin round, patient like; kinder 
samplin de wind as it was a passin by, to 
see if dinner was ready. His head was 
sunk down mongst his shoulders, an his 
feathers ruffled up, like he didn't begrudge 
de time waitin, when long came Mr. 
Sparrow Hawk an sot long side er him on 
de fence — peart an sassy as a house tligga. 
"Mo'nin, Mr. Tu'key Buzza'd," he sez, 



Ole Mr. Turkey Buzza'd. 

sez he. "How is you dis mo'nin?" an den 
he kinder gibble-gabble some bout de news 
in gineral, an at las he up an sez, sez he: 
"How does you git you libben, Mr. Tu'key 
Buzza'd?" sez he. 

"Why, Mr. Sparrow Hawk," sez he, "I 
git my libbin a wait in on de Lawd." 

" 'Pears to me dat's kinder ha'd pickin," 
Mr. Sparrow Hawk sez. 

"It might be wus," ole Tu'key Buzza'd 
sez. "I ain't a complainin, but since we 
is exchangin views, how does you git 
you libbin, Mr. Sparrow Hawk?" 

"Me? Why, I go out an hustle fer my 
libbin," Mr. Sparrow Hawk sez, a kinder 
swellin up. 

An jes den a chippie-bird done come an 
light on de fence ercross de road. "Now, 
you see dat chippie-bird?" Mr. Sparrow 
Hawk sez. "I done gwine to show you 
how a genl'man dines," and wid dat he done 
make a dive fer de chippie, an de chippie 
fly down towa'd de groun, an de Sparrow 

62 



Ole Mr. Tu'key Buzza'd. 

Hawk he try to dive tween de rails, an 
bif, he strike hes head on de rail, an fall 
down dade. 

Ole Mr. Tu'key Buzza'd he kinder on- 
loosen hisself, an jumps down an hop 
ercross de road wid slowness an dignitude, 
sayin to hisself: " 'Pears to me dis yer 
waitin on de Lawd ain't so bad;" an den 
as he squar hisself like, a gittin ready fer 
a light lunch, he sez: "De late Mr. Spar- 
row Hawk he done right after all; he sez 
he gwine ter show how a genl'man dines; 
yassir, he done right," and wid dat he done 
toke Mr. Sparrow Hawk right in hes midst. 




i 



65 




Antome an Hes "Pon Boat.'' 



TVTOT since long time ago, I am at Mon- 
roe wid a load of feesh an I meet on 
de street de priest, jes wen I am goin get a 
lil drink, cos I have de money for my feesh 
an she is biggin to burn. He say to me: 
"Antoine, de good Fader Mathieu is here 
from Quebec, an he is goin at Vienna — 
you shall tek him in you pon boat wen 
you go back, eh?" An I say: "Yes, mon 
Pere, I jes goin down an pay Isadore forty 
cent for some hegg I get las summer." 
66 



Antoine an Hes "Pon Boat." 

An he say: "Don forget an fill you neck 
up." An I say: "Non, non, dat is not 
possibl'." 

Dat was so bout dose hegg. I owe 
Isadore all right, but I tink I pay him nex 
time. I get me, mebbe, two or four good 
drink, an a quart for de priest, cos de win is 
blow sharp an cold. 

I go back an get him, an we start out. 
She is blow pretty fresh outside, an me, I 
am feelin pretty good, an when a good 
puff come I hoi her right on her course, 
an her lee rail is under all de time. Dat 
priest, I hav him on de winward rail, an 
she is good ballas, she weigh bout two 
hungred. De good Fader, he is get a lil 
scare at firs, but I hask him tek lil smile, 
an he tek big laugh, an I'm glad den I 
get a quart. I don't know wen I hav such 
good time lak dat. We sing, an bagosh, if 
I ain't know de song he sing, me, I sing 
any way, an she come out all right. 

Bout sundown we get hom, an I hask 

(!) 



Antoine an Hes "Pon Boat." 

de good Fader, will he com to my house 
an hav "petit souper?" an he say yes, an 
I am glad, cos Angelique she can't say 
noding bout de whiskee, cos de priest is 
wid me, an bot our hair is pullin lil bit. 
We are bot hungrie, like black bass, an 
bagosh, Angelique, she have catfeesh cheek, 
an we heat an heat. Den I mix up lil hot 
water an whiskee, an we hav "toddie" an 
good smoke, an me an de good Fader is 
"bon camerade," an den he stay hall night; 
but jes lil fore we go to bed, an wen An- 
gelique is say her prayer, he say to me, an 
hes face is long, long: "Antoine, wat day 
is dat?" An I say: "Dat's Friday, mon 
pere," an I am get scare. An he say: "Wat 
kin meat we hav for supper?" An den I 
laf, I can't help, an I say: "Dat ain't no 
meat, dat's catfeesh cheek." An he laf, an 
say: "She is might good cheek; I tought 
you try to fool de good Fader. I tink, An- 
toine, you are 'bon Catholique'." An I say: 
"Sure, yes." 

An den she say: "Good night." 

70 



Dat Blizzard. 



T'M on de mash, now, forty year, 

Cept one year in de Pen; 
But de win, she's blow on Monday 
Lak I nevaire seen since when. 

()1 Pete Arquette got eighty year, 
He say he seen some bigger 

71 



Dat Blizzard. 

On Lac St. Pierre, near Montreal, 
But dat ain't cut no figger. 

Cos dat ol Pete's a liar, sure, 
An wen he go below, 
He say: "She is more hot lak dis 
Some time at Toledo." 

Dat water high lak eighteen feet, 
My ol pon boat is sink, 
My twine, she's hall bus up an torn; 
I tink I tek a drink. 

A good Frenchman drink whiskee 
Wen de water is too high, 
An wen she's low, he drink some, too; 
She be higher bime-by. 



72 




Wen de Ole Hoim Bays 

f^VH, de stars is jes a crinklin, 
^^ But de moon is in de dark, 
De sly ole coon's a runnin, 
vSo you lissen, an you hark, 
Wen de ole houn bays. 



De pups is runnin rabbits, 
Caus a pup ain'1 got no sense; 
73 



Wen de Ole Houn Bays 

Ole coon is jes a laffin, 
Caus de show ain't done commence 
Till de ole houn bays. 



Dar's a hummin in de tree tops 
An a ripplin in de run, 
An it only lacks de music 
Dat's pretty nigh begun 
Wen de ole houn bays. 

Oh, glory! did you hear it? 
Oh, Massa, hear it ring! 
It's as meller as de Autumn 
An it's welcome as de Spring, 
Wen de ole houn bays. 

Dey ain't no music like it 
Fer dese ole ears o' mine, 
It tingles in de fingers 
An it warms de heart like wine 
Wen de ole houn bays. 
74 



Wen de Ole Houn Bays, 

De yaller gals' low laffin, 
Wen de moon is in de full, 
Is pretty nigh to music, 
But to feel de heart-strings pull, 
Hear de ole houn bay. 





Society Sketch, Presque Isle, 

1830. 



f T*HE social code at Presque Isle, on 
Maumee Bay in the '30s, was not rigid, 
and yet it had its limitations, so that when 
Jean Baptiste Beausoir brought from 
Frenchtown (now Monroe), a black-eyed 
French girl as an understudy to the then 
existing Madame Beausoir, the heart of the 
Madame was bitter, though the settlement 
78 



Society Sketch, Presque Isle, 1830. 

merely raised its eyebrows (metaphori- 
cally) and then went on about its busi- 
ness. The Madame was French (the jest 
is an old one, but apropos) by Indian con- 
sent. She was the daughter of a chief's 
sister, the Indians reckoned descent only in 
the female line, as it created less misun- 
derstanding, muffled the tongue of slander, 
and, was, in fact, a certainty, as far as it 
went. Madame was at work in the potato 
patch, as became a thrifty wife, when her 
husband swaggered toward the cabin with 
his recent acquisition, in the morning, 
having attended a ball at Frenchtown the 
evening previous. He had captivated the 
"willing maid" there by an alluring tenor 
voice, a trifle alcoholic, perhaps, an un- 
usual and nimble dexterity in the dance 
and a fierce moustache u a la militaire." 
Madame, among the potatoes, took in this 
social inconsistency at a glance, but with 
the stolidity inherited from her mother, 
she merely glanced at the couple and then 

7!) 



Society Sketch, Presque Isle, 1830. 

resumed her work, but with a fierce gleam 
in her dark eyes at her offending lesser 
half, who was not slow to interpret. He, 
therefore, wisely absented himself, not 
caring to be between the opposing factions 
and thinking the storm would blow over by 
the time he returned; then, too, he felt that 
he needed a mild stimulant for a u song" at 
the store, so he went forth with the spirit 
of a minstrel of old, with an old cracked 
guitar and a somewhat husky voice. We 
will leave him to absorb courage, and re- 
turn to Madame. She waited until her 
husband had arrived at the thriving town 
of Manhattan and then threw off her 
stolidity. The French blood was dominant 
now. She got a lunch together, and point- 
ing to a canoe on the beach, she said to 
her understudy: "You git in dose pirogue." 
The girl obeyed, partly through fear, as 
she could see the Madame was in a state 
of mind that would not admit of argument, 
and partly because she was somewhat 
so 



Society Sketch, Presque Isle, 1830 

weary of her late experiment and the com- 
plication of her position. The Madame 
handed her understudy a paddle and headed 
for Frenchtown. Then followed the long, 
silent journey, until Madame unloaded her 
precious cargo, cleared, and started up the 
River Raisin to await developments. 

Madame had a mathematical brain. 
Developments came as she had expected. 
Jean Francois came back to his cabin and 
saw that his ''light o' love" had fled. He 
missed the canoe and decided that she had 
become lonely without him and "gone 
home to Mamma." He was partially 
right, but somehow he left Madame out of 
the calculation. 

With tlie ardor born of several liberal 
potations of proof spirit and confidence 
begotten of a large bottle of liquid delight, 
he started for Frenchtown with a lusty 
stroke. It would be difficult to say whether 
Madame or J can Francois made the quicker 
trip. She was prompted by bitter hate; he 
si 



Society Sketch, Presque Isle, 1830. 

wafted on the wings of love and proof 
spirit. When he turned into the River 
Raisin, with the broad moon at his back, 
his canoe was fairly flying-. Up the dark 
river he went singing his merriest "chan- 
son," when suddenly, in an unusually dark 
place, he tumbled back in his canoe and 
felt as if a red-hot iron had been passed 
across his throat, stunned and helpless. 

Madame, with nice calculation, had 
stretched a thong of raw buckskin across 
the river, so it would catch him just under 
the chin, which it did. By this ingenious 
device Madame had enjoyed a quiet 
''beauty sleep." She quickly and deftly 
bound his hands as he lay limp in the 
bottom of the canoe, put his legs under a 
thwart and then saw the bottle. Instead 
of smashing it she transferred about half a 
pint of it quietly to her system, and with a 
grunt of satisfaction she started for home, 
have done quite a thriving passenger busi- 
ness. 

82 



Society Sketch, Presque Isle, 1830. 

After her recreant lord had exhausted 
his vocabulary of volcanic French oaths, 
and came to the stage where he asked 
penitently for a drink, the heart of Madame 
was softened. She unbound him and gave 
him a liberal mouthful, retaining, however, 
the custody of the bottle. When they 
arrived home the domestic atmosphere 
was quite changed. Jean Francoise was 
quite tender, if a trifle maudlin, in his 
promise to reform. Madame was reserved 
and dignified, yet inclined to the side of 
forgiveness, so they slept the sleep of the 
just — but intoxicated. 



83 



, 




w 



% 



i 



At La PI 



aisance 



r I ^HE yacht had swung- round to her an- 

* chorage in the Bay of La Plaisance, 

perhaps half a mile from shore. A gentle 

wind was blowing from the south, and the 

84 



At La Plaisance. 

cat-tails in the marsh a mile away nodded 
in obeisance to the breeze. On the water 
a broad splash of color from the moon 
stretched away like a path of gold across 
the bay, while toward the mainland fire- 
flies danced and glittered, and a whip-poor- 
will had just begun his nocturne, which 
came over the water with all its plaintive 
sweetness. Two young men were silently 
enjoying the quiet and a smoke in the cock- 
pit, when one of them spoke up: "Dave, 
let's go over and see old Mose." 

"All right; you want to see Julie, 
though," was the happy response. 

"Nonsense, get the oars out," and soon 
the little boat grated on the sandy beach. 
A low shanty, built of drift wood, only 
forty or fifty feet from the shore, and there 
was Mose, seated before the door with Julie 
on a stool at his feet. 

"Old Mose" was not old by any means; 
perhaps forty-five, full beard, with a dash 
of gray, finely shaped hands, that hinted 
85 



At La Plais 



ance 



that a remote ancestor had signed his 
name with a u De" before it, quite likely 
a French officer at Detroit in the old time. 

Profanity was a legitimate part of 
speech with Mose. It bubbled from him 
innocently and spontaneously, although he 
was a devout Catholic. 

But Julie, pretty little Julie, and yet 
not only pretty — there was something about 
her that, had she walked the streets of 
Paris in Revolutionary times, in whatever 
dress, there would have been a cry "aristo- 
crat." As George and Dave came up from 
the beach, Mose got up quickly and out- 
stretching his hands, exclaimed: "Well, 
M'sieu George an M'sieu Dave, I did'n 
tink I see you to-night. I see dat yacht 
out dere an I see her fold up her wing like 
dat gull wen she sit on dat lac, but I did'n 
tink you care for de ol man. Dat's my 
daughter Julie (as George looked at her ad- 
miringly); M'sieu Dave, he seen her before. 
Julie, get some chair." 
86 



At La Plaisance. 

"No, Mose, we'll lie on the grass. Came 
over to have you tell us a story, Mose," 
George said. 

"You wan a story, eh?" Then, with 
a smile and a glance at his daughter, he 
continued: "Well, I tell you a story bout 
dat HI Julie." 

"Don't make yourself so fresh, Pa," 
cried the maid. 

"See, look," said Mose, proudly. "Did'n 
I say long time ago dat lil Julie can lern 
English quick? She goin to school ovaire 
dere at Vienna, an (very earnestly) look — 
dat lil Julie goin to marry dat school 
teachaire. I tell you dat lil Julie she 
lern fas. 

"Well, I tell you dat story. Come here, 
m' petite," to Julie, who came and sat 
by his knee. "M'sieu George, you see dose 
lil wave comin upon dat beach jes lak dat 
bay was always 'La Plaisance,' jes lak dat 
cat wen she eat milk — lap — lap — dat win 
jes bout nick dose cat-tail in de mash 
87 



At La Plaisance 

bend lak dat (waving- his hand), but me 
an Julie we see dose wave come in here 
lak dey was hungaire. 

"Jes bout fourteen year ago, my wife 
an Julie, an her lil sistaire — Julie, she had 
four year, dat lil Maggie, she had two year 
— we was comin from Stony Point. We 
was comin, M'sieu George, but we did'n all 
come." Then, almost fiercely, "my wife 
an dat lil Maggie out on dat bay, now." 

Julie had crept nearer him and clasped 
his hand, which trembled in hers, as she 
entreated: "Don't tell the story now, Papa." 

"Oui, m' petite, I goin tell her. Dat 
M'sieu George wan a story." 

His hand shook as he took it up osten- 
sibly to take his pipe from his mouth, but 
really to wipe away a tear that had trickled 
down his swarthy cheek. "No, M'sieu 
George, dey call dat 'La Plaisance,' I call 
dat bay 'Maiheur.' Dose wave got all I 
ever had cep dat lil Julie. Sometimes wen 
Julie was lil girl we use to sit out here an 

88 



At La Plaisance. 

dose wave come up on Bay Point. Wen 
she blow fresh dey sound far away, lak dat 
big organ in de church at Toledo, an Julie 
she say to me: ' Papa, dose waves sayin 
mass for Mamma and Maggie,' an I hope 
dat was so. But, M'sieu George, I get my 
livin off dat wave, but I don owe dat wave 
anyting, no. I tell you bout dat story. 
I come near forget. Fourteen year ago in 
November, I come from Stony Point. Dat 
win jes bout wes, mebbe; pretty near. 
She blow fresh an dat sea roll up high wen 
we start off, but I know dat ol pon boat 
she stan her if her stick hoi. Wen we get 
jes bout four mile out from dat Monroe 
Pier, she blow like fury. I get two reef in 
her, but dat foremas she bend like dat 
grass in de mash. I tout she pull troo, 
but bime-by I get a puff dat take dat fore- 
mas lak dat — c-r-r-rack," motioning as he 
arose, and appealing asked: "What can a 
man do, M'sieur George, wid a pon boat wen 
de sea is big an she blow a gale an dat wreck 
i)l 



At La Plaisance. 

draggin? She roll ovaire lak log an I see 
my wife an dat lil chile in her arm go 
down, but I ketch dat lil Julie. I tek her 
in my arm an get on de bottom of dat pon 
boat. I put lil Julie inside my coat an cut 
off piece dat main sheet an lash her fas. 
Den I pull up dat centaire board an lash her 
to brek dat sea, an so we wait for le bon 
Dieu to tek us, wen His time come, to 
Mamma an dat lil Maggie. We drif all 
night, an dat was a long night, M'sieu 
George. I grow ol in dat night. Bout four 
o'clock I seen schoonaire light bout five 
mile from West Sistaire. She pick us up 
an we been here evaire since. Dat ain't 
much for story, M'sieu George, but she is 
different from story — she is de trut. Me 
an Julie we come from Stony Point lots of 
time since den, an in dat Springtime wat 
you tink we do? Me an Julie we go in de 
wood an get dose wil flower, her Mamma 
use lak dat lil wil flower, and we get dat 
pon lily, too, an den wen we get jes bout 
92 



At La Plaisance . 

four mile out from dat Monroe Pier (Julie, 
with her head in his lap, was sobbing), 
Julie, she sprinkle dat flower on de water 
an she say, 'Dat's for Mamma an Maggie.' 
Dat's de bes we can do, but me an Julie, 
we lak do dat. No, I don owe dat wave 
anyting cep for I get dat lil Julie, but she 
goin marry dat school teachaire, an den she 
forget her ol fader." 

"Non, non, Papa," emphatically ex- 
claimed the girl. 

"Well," said Mose, as the young men 
arose to go, expressing their thanks for 
the story in a quiet and softened way, 
"Dat's all right, M'sieu George an M'sieu 
Dave;" then, musingly, as he walked down 
to the beach with them: "Yes, I tink some- 
times, p'r'aps, mebbe, dat name 'La Plais- 
ance' all right for dat bay — all dat I evaire 
love is out dere — cept Julie. Yes, I guess, 
p'r'aps, dat name all right. 

"Bon jour, Messieu." 



93 



Not on the Bills. 



A GLARE of lights, a long gallery ex- 
tending around a large room, a large 
stage, waiters flitting hither and thither in 
white aprons, with a nimble dexterity born 
of much practice, which has earned them 
the flattering title of "beer jugglers." 

The house full, the occupants in vari- 
ous stages. In the gallery, called by 
courtesy the "Ladies' Gallery," separate 
boxes in which "The Ladies," when not 
engaged on the stage, refreshed themselves 
with generous draughts of the amber nectar 
or coyly tossed off glasses of a more 
cheering liquid, variously referred to as 
"red eye," "booze," or "just a dash of the 
regular, Cholly," at the expense of young 
94 



Not on the Bills. 

gentlemen (courtesy again) of rather callow 
appearance, some fairly good looking and 
evidently there for the first time. 

Here and there down stairs, one whose 
face indicated that to him this tawdy tinsel 
was illusion — this painted mockery beauti- 
ful. 

As one of these stared in open-mouth 
admiration, one of the initiated remarked: 
"Get on to de jay ketchin flies, Jimmie." 

In fact, "Mesdames et Madamoiselles," 
a Variety Theater, about midnight. In one 
of the boxes, two young men and two per- 
sons who comprised part of the "Galaxy of 
Beauty," per programme. One of these 
persons was young and had a little of the 
freshness of youth, that showed through 
the paint and rouge. Dark hair and piquant 
black eyes, whose sparkle was not entirely 
dimmed, and a laugh that, in spite of its 
false ring, indicated that its owner had 
once been light hearted. The face, and 
rather musical broken English, indicated 
95 



Not on the Bills. 



plainly that she was of Canadian-French 
origin. 

She prattled gayly, much to the amuse- 
ment of the young men and rather to the 
evident chagrin of the other work of art in 
abbreviated skirts. She was criticizing 
the work of one of her fellow artists (a 
portly sprite) on the stage, not very 
gently. 

"Look at dat Liz, she is gettin bigger 
all de time, but I don care if she is how 
big — her feet is made for somebody bigger. 
Look! she is tryin mek a mash on dat lil 
man, but he ain't drunk enough. My God! 
if she fell on him off dat stage she mek 
her firs mash." 

In the audience was a slender, wiry- 
looking fellow, who paid no attention to 
the show, but whose black eyes were wan- 
dering from box to box, with a look of the 
most intense scrutiny. One of the young 
men noticed him and said: "Julie, there is 
one of your kind of people." 

96 



Not on the Bills. 

"Where?" she said, listlessly. 

"There," he said, as the man looked 
squarely at the box. 

The girl started, the sordid misery of 
her life rushed over her in a moment; with 
a look of anguish she said: "My God, I 
don wan see him!" but it was too late, the 
man had seen her and started for the stair- 
way. 

In a few moments he came in with a 
bright look on his face. "How you do, 
Julie, I'm glad to fin you; I look so long, I 
go hall over dis town; I come to hask you 
Julie if you go back wid me." His face 
had changed as he saw the look of suffer- 
ing on her face, and the last words he only 
stammered. 

She answered, "No." 

He said softly: "Julie, your mudder lak 
to see you," then, dropping in the French, 
appealingly, as she began weeping: "Oh, 
little one, come with me, come back to thy 
old home; thy mother will kiss thee and 

97 



Not on the Bills. 

ask nothing, and I will ask nothing but 
thee. Thou, whom I love, wilt thou not 
come and we shall be married? Thou has't 
loved me, thou wilt come?" 

She had stopped crying, and arose as she 
said, hesitatingly: "No, Jacques, you mus 
go, I go an sing soon; you ought to be shem 
of me for to leave so, and — it is too late, I 
am marry already; tell my mudder good- 
bye." She was gone, and the man turned 
and went his way, crushed and broken. 

There are little dramas not on the bills, 
sometimes, in all theaters. 



98 



J^iy £^J^ £^1^. H^Jz. E^-JC £^J£. £^!jE. 




T 



'HERE'S a sonnet 
In her bonnet, 
And an idyl in her frock; 
There's a roundeau on the clocking 
Of her dainty little stocking; 
In her hair, a pretty poem in each lock. 

And when she laughs withall, 

There's a charming madrigal; 

But sweetest, best of all, 

When she sighs, 

There's a gentle benediction 

In her eyes. 






904 



